THICKER THAN WATER
W. C. TUTTLE
THICKER THAN WATER
A Story of Hashknife Hartley
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
Boston and New York
COPYRIGHT, 1927, BY THE BUTTERICK PUBLISHING COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1927, BY WILBUR C. TUTTLE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
CONTENTS
I. The Ace of Spades
II. The Eagle Saloon
III. Lila’s Departure
IV. Chuckwalla Makes a Mistake
V. Father and Son
VI. Lila
VII. Rance Wins Out
VIII. The Overland Makes an Unexpected Stop
IX. At the Circle Spade
X. Scotty Gets an Earful of Dirt
XI. A Horse Trade
XII. The Half-Box R
XIII. Two Suspects
XIV. Rance’s Confession
XV. Escape
XVI. Lost--a Hat
XVII. Kid Glover
XVIII. Hashknife at Work
XIX. Part of the Truth
XX. Fire
XXI. The Finish at the JML
XXII. The Trail Again
THICKER THAN WATER
CHAPTER I--THE ACE OF SPADES
The two men faced each other across the little table in the living-room
of the Circle Spade ranch-house, in the light of a single oil lamp. The
younger of the two men was Jack McCoy, known as “Angel,” while the other
was Rance McCoy, his father, and owner of the Circle Spade ranch.
Angel McCoy was rather tall, well muscled, with features as clean-cut as
a cameo. His skin was almost as white as milk, his hair as black as jet,
and he wore it long in front of his ears--a swinging curl of inky-black
against his white cheek. His eyes were brown, shaded by sharpcut brows.
There was no denying the fact that he was handsome.
Just now he wore a white silk shirt, with a red handkerchief knotted
around his throat, black trousers tucked into the tops of a pair of
fancy, high-heeled boots--and about him was an odor of perfume.
Rance McCoy’s appearance had nothing in common with his son’s. He was
about fifty years of age, grizzled, hard-faced, with a skin the color of
jerked venison. His eyes were gray, and there were scars on his face,
which showed lighter than the rest of his skin; scars of many battles.
Rance McCoy had been a fighter in his time. There were other scars,
which did not show, where hot lead had scored him time and again.
He was tough, was Rance McCoy; an old gunman, afraid of nothing--not
even of his handsome son.
“Well, all I can say is that you’ve got some damned queer ideas,” said
Angel slowly.
“Mebby I have,” said the old man.
“No maybe about it,” said Angel sneeringly. “Lila is of age and I’m of
age. If I want to marry her, it’s none of yore business.”
“You think not? Well, everybody is entitled to an opinion. I’ve told yuh
about me, Angel.”
“Yeah, and I don’t think much of yuh.”
Angel got to his feet and stood there, looking down at his father.
“I knew all along that Lila wasn’t my sister,” he said slowly.
The old man lifted a hand to fend the light from his eyes, as he looked
up at his son.
“Billy DuMond told yuh, Angel?”
“Ten years ago. He said you killed her father and then adopted her.”
“That drunken thief!” muttered the old man.
“Who--Lila’s father?”
“No--Billy DuMond.”
“I don’t know anythin’ about that part of it,” said Angel. “He merely
told me that she wasn’t my sister. You don’t deny that, do yuh?”
“No, I don’t deny it.”
Angel slowly rolled a cigarette, watching the old man’s face.
“Maybe you think I’m not good enough for her, eh? Was that why you were
willin’ to give me my share of the cattle, and let me buy out the Eagle?
Wanted to get rid of me, eh?”
Angel laughed harshly and lighted his cigarette over the top of the
lamp-chimney.
“There wasn’t any question of gettin’ rid of yuh,” said Rance McCoy
slowly. “It was yore own proposition. You wanted to run a saloon and be
a gambler; so I gave yuh yore share of the cattle. I sent Lila away to
school. It cost me a lot of money to educate her, Angel.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
Angel exhaled a cloud of smoke through his shapely nostrils.
“But as far as you marryin’ Lila--you’ll not,” declared Rance McCoy
flatly. “I raised the two of yuh together, and I know all about both of
yuh. I’ve heard that you’re a crooked dealer, Angel. Men don’t hint
things like that unless there’s some truth in it. Crooked at cards,
crooked at everythin’.”
Angel McCoy jerked forward, his dark eyes glittering in the yellow
light.
“Crooked, am I?” he laughed harshly. “No man dares say it to my face.
They come and whine to you, do they? And you believe things like this of
yore own son! That’s why you won’t let me marry Lila, eh? All right;
I’ll tell Lila that she ain’t yore daughter. I’ll tell her you killed
her father. I’ll tell----”
“If yuh do”--Rance McCoy’s old face twisted harshly and he leaned
forward, shoving his right shoulder against the table--“If yuh do,
Angel--I’ll kill yuh. A long time ago yuh ceased to be my son. Oh,
yuh’ll get an even break. I never killed any man without givin’ him an
even break.”
“Even break!” exclaimed Angel. “What man ever had an even break with
you? I’ve seen yuh draw and shoot, old man.”
The old man laughed mirthlessly. Few men could draw and shoot with Rance
McCoy.
“Yuh always did lose yore nerve in a showdown,” he said.
“I never lost my nerve,” growled Angel. “But this ain’t a shootin’
proposition.”
The old man studied him for a space of several minutes.
“Angel,” he said slowly, “what does Lila know about this? She wouldn’t
marry her own brother. What have yuh told her?”
Angel smiled crookedly and rested his elbows on the table.
“Well, if you’ve got to know--she knows.”
“She knows?”
“I told her tonight.”
“Yuh told her tonight?”
“That you ain’t her father--yes. No, I never asked her to marry me--not
yet. But by God, I’m goin’ to ask her!”
The old man got slowly to his feet, disclosing the fact that he wore a
holstered gun. Angel also wore one, and the mother-of-pearl handle
flashed like an opal in the yellow light. With a twitch of his left hand
the old man jerked out a drawer from the table and produced an old deck
of playing-cards.
He dropped them on the table and looked sharply at Angel, who was
watching him curiously.
“Shuffle ’em,” ordered the old man.
“What’s the idea?”
“I’m givin’ yuh an even break, Angel. You’re a gambler, and I’m givin’
yuh a gambler’s chance. Shuffle the cards and let me cut ’em. You can do
the dealin’. The one who gets the ace of spades--shoots first.”
“You mean----” Angel hesitated.
“You know what I mean, yuh yaller pup.”
Angel flushed quickly and reached for the cards. His long fingers
riffled the cards with mechanical precision. Time after time he split
the deck, until it seemed as though he was trying to wear out the cards.
The old man’s keen eyes watched those hands, and there was a half-smile
on his lips.
“That’s enough,” he said drawlingly. “Let me cut.”
It seemed to Angel that the old man studied the deck rather carefully
before he made the cut.
“The one who gets the ace of spades shoots first, eh?” said Angel, and
it seemed as though his voice trembled.
The old man nodded.
“Go ahead and deal.”
Angel hesitated.
“This is foolishness, old man. If I shoot yuh, they’ll hang me for
murder. Lila’s upstairs.”
“She don’t know you’re here.”
“But the shot would wake her up.”
“How long do yuh think it’ll take yuh to get away? You talk as though
yuh already had the ace of spades. I’ll take my chances. Go ahead and
deal.”
Angel shuddered slightly. It was all so ridiculous, this idea of dealing
for the first shot. But the old man did not seem to mind. There was not
a tremor in the gnarled hand that rested on the old table-top.
“Go ahead and deal, you coward,” he said coldly.
With a flick of his fingers the gambler threw the first two cards--ace
of hearts, six of clubs. There were fifty more cards in the deck.
King, jack. It was the king of spades.
“Hittin’ close,” said the old man.
Angel licked his lips and dealt the next two slowly--ten, deuce.
“How far for the first shot?” he asked hoarsely.
“Width of the room. Can’t miss. Deal.” Queen, deuce.
“Runnin’ small on yore side,” observed the old man.
Angel licked his lips again and his right hand trembled, as he dealt
himself a trey to Rance’s second king.
“Why don’tcha git it over with, Angel?” taunted the old man. “Losin’
yore nerve?”
But Angel did not reply. His eyes were staring at the cards as they
fell. The deck was getting thin now. Not over a dozen cards left. It was
difficult for him to swallow. The oil was low in the lamp, and it had
begun to smoke a little.
Six cards left. Ace of diamonds, seven of hearts. Only four left. His
hands felt heavy as lead. He wanted to say something, but his mouth was
too dry. With a super-effort he managed to deal the next two cards--two
deuces.
There were only two cards left in his hand; two old dog-eared cards that
held his fate. He stared down at them as though fascinated. He looked
across the table at the face of his father, who was laughing at him.
Slowly his right hand went to his lips--a hand that trembled a tattoo
against his mouth--and with a strangled word he dropped the two cards on
the floor, turned on his heel, and stumbled to the door. He flung the
door open, and a moment later came the staccato drumming of his horse’s
hoofs, as he rode swiftly away from the ranch.
The old man still stood beside the table, a half-smile on his lips, as
he looked down at the cards. Then he stepped around the table and picked
up those last two cards--a six of hearts and the joker. Then he swept up
all the cards and opened the table drawer. Looking up at him from the
bottom of the drawer was the ace of spades. It had been left there when
the deck had been taken out.
“Busted his nerve,” whispered the old man. “Lucky thing that old joker
was bent enough to lift up the deck and give me a chance to cut it on
the bottom. Still, I didn’t think he had nerve enough to deal fifty of
’em--I wouldn’t have had, that’s a cinch.”